England and hiking don't mix
by Semebay
Summary: England is kidnapped, and then forced to go on a hike. And what of our hero?/For the usxuk  Sweetheart Week, Day 6? Earth and all that jazz. Fail!crack, fail!romance


England wasn't sure exactly _what_ had happened. All he knew was that one moment he had been walking to his car, and the next, he had been bound, gagged, and thrown into the backseat of some _other_ vehicle. He had tried, of course, to fight whatever it was that bound him. He had tried to scream through the gag, and tried to loosen the ropes around his hands. Unfortunately, nothing worked, and he was left to ponder his fate and hope that he would have a chance to fight his captor.

England couldn't tell where they were going. He noticed that there was a definite lack of traffic, as the honking and shouting that had been so prevalent before was gone. He tried to shout through the gag, but he could hear his words leave him as muffled groans and grunts, and then felt a hand pat his shoulder in a move that was probably supposed to be reassuring.

It wasn't. As soon as he was touched, England attempted to pull away and sit up on the seat, but a rather violent jolt as the car went over a bump threw him back down onto the seat. He barely managed to keep himself from rolling off the seat and onto the floor before the car hit another series of bumps that seemed to go on for miles. England was thrown around the back seat with no real control of where his body landed, and found that his breathing was heavy despite the gag when the car finally stopped.

England didn't have time to wonder why and where they had stopped, as he heard the door yanked open, and then he was being pulled from the back seat and slung over someone's shoulder.

It was at that point in time that England was sure he was about to be murdered. He could smell the outdoors, and feel the uneven movements while his kidnapper carried him through a forest, over rocks and logs. He could hear everything, as though his blindness had strengthened his hearing. The birds overhead, small animals fleeing through the trees, a stream running through the trees ahead. He kicked uselessly at his captor, but that only resulted in him being adjusted into what was likely a more comfortable position for his captor.

England wondered if he should just let his captor do what he wanted, and escape after everything was over and done with. He'd have to deal with blood loss (or worse), but he was sure he'd come out of it reasonably okay.

Though he really didn't want to deal with the pain. He could do without pain.

England had finally decided that he would run. As soon as his captor set to do whatever he planned, England was going to run and get as far away as he possibly could.

England was dropped on the ground, and he wasn't able to keep back the groan of pain. He could feel the moisture from the ground already starting to soak into his clothes and skin, and squirmed when something brushed against his face.

England waited until he felt his captor lean closer, and then he bent his knees back with the intent to slam his feet into whatever part of his enemy was closest.

England kicked but missed, and an arm wrapped around his legs to immobilize him. He felt cold steel against his cheek, and then the piece of fabric that had served as a blindfold was tugged away. England expected to be momentarily blinded by the sunlight that was above, but the canopy of trees above left everything on the ground in shadow. England narrowed his eyes and tested the gag, wondering if there was a way to shout at his captor, and then his attacker's head loomed over him.

"England."

England didn't know what to say (not that he would have been able to say anything anyway). He had just been roughed up, bound, gagged, blinded, shoved in the back of a car, taken who-knows-where, had questioned his probable future, and the person that had decided on the joyride was _America_?

England tried to shout, but all that managed to get through the gag in his mouth were grunts and squeals.

"Ready to go hiking?"

England would have gaped. As it was, he was struck both speechless and motionless by America, and though he knew that America was untying and cutting the ropes on him, he couldn't will himself to move.

"I have a change of clothes for you," America continued, speaking as though he _hadn't_ trussed England up and dragged him into some forest in the middle of nowhere.

England vaguely remembered America saying something about hiking (and his own refusal), and he hoped that the current situation was not a result of his rather scathing refusal.

America reached up to pull the cloth from England's mouth, and England glanced around while he collected himself. They were in the middle of fucking nowhere. There were trees and rocks as far as he could see, and he couldn't begin to fathom how far out America had taken him.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

England stared at America, then decided on the best course of action. He stood up and rubbed his wrists where the ropes had chafed, then kicked at America before he could stand.

"Why the hell am I out here?" England demanded.

America massaged his leg where England had kicked him, and he grinned. "I told you we were going hiking, remember? I told you yesterday!"

"And I remember telling you exactly how I felt about that!" England shouted. He crossed his arms and glared, wishing that for once America would understand how angry he was, and not act as though it was all part of some big joke. "I have no interest in hiking with you! I have better things to do than run around in some godforsaken forest with the animals!"

"You've got me," America laughed, but England was hearing none of it.

"No! No, absolutely not! You're just as bad as them, if not worse!"

America smirked and stood. He reached forward and slipped his hands around England's waist, but the other was having none of it. England shoved him away, and America stumbled back a few steps.

"You always do this!" England shouted. "You're always insufferable, and you ignore what everyone else says to you because of some goddamned superiority complex! I've had enough!"

America laughed, but England turned on his heel and started off in the opposite direction. It was probably a stupid decision. He didn't know where in the hell he was, but he knew that he couldn't stay near America. He knew that everything he said would be met with laughter, and that every time he tried to bring America bodily harm, it would be brushed off and (again) laughed at.

In times like these, it was easier to walk away.

If only America wouldn't follow. England's walking away would have been far more effective if America would leave England to stew alone. He had had quite enough of America's childish antics, and wasn't willing to deal with anymore of the foolishness.

If only there was a trail, or some way to find out how to get out. England had heard a stream before, but it was far out of hearing distance with how far America had taken him. As it was, England was probably just walking in circles.

"You want some help?" America called up from his place twenty feet back, and England responded with a rather vicious "Fuck you to hell!"

"All yours," America said, and England could _hear_ the smirk in his voice.

It made him even angrier.

"You can piss off and get the fuck away from me!" England shouted back while he stalked through trees and shrubs, stomping on small plants and scaring a flock of birds. "I've had enough of this shit, and I'm not dealing with it anymore!"

England kicked at a rock, and suddenly found himself falling head first down an embankment. He was surprised how little noise he made while sliding down the hill, filling his shirt with dirt and his mouth with various flora. He grabbed at trees and branches in an attempt to stop himself, but gradually slowed anyway, and ended up face down in the dirt at the bottom of the hill. He groaned and rolled over, to find that the self-proclaimed "hero" wasn't following.

England snorted. America probably hadn't noticed anything, with his tunnel vision and inability to see what was going on around him. England decided that instead of waiting around for America to show up, he would make sure that America couldn't play the hero. He immediately marched forward, intent on going in a straight line and finding his way out eventually, even if he had to walk for days.

_Days._

* * *

So maybe "days" had been a bit of an exaggeration. England had barely walked for three hours before he had slumped down on the ground and just breathed for the better part of twenty minutes. He was working off the anger (though it was still there, ready to chew up and spit out unsuspecting Americans), and was beginning to realize the severity of the situation.

America had forests that spanned hundreds of miles. If he were in one such forest, he could literally be walking forever. While America knew the forests, and could maneuver in his own lands, England had no such luck in America. He didn't know the land at all, and couldn't sense things as though they were a part of himself. He was sure that America could easily find his way out, but that didn't mean that America would be able to find _him_ (not that England wanted to be found by him).

England groaned where he lay. His clothes were soaked from his trip through a spot that acted a bit like a swamp, and the cold was seeping in to his skin, chilling him and making his steps heavy. He was understandably pissed, slightly worried, and tired.

Really fucking tired.

Of course, England wasn't completely stupid. There were times to sleep, and those times weren't the present. He had to keep on trekking, and find his way out without America's help.

Otherwise, he might as well have stayed behind to listen to America laugh at him.

The thought both infuriated and invigorated England, and he forced himself to his feet to continue on.

* * *

England was pretty sure it was midnight. Pretty sure, because his watch had been lost in a tragic incident with a small hole filled with mud. Not that he would have been able to read it, anyway.

England groaned and collapsed on a shelf of granite, and glared at the lake he had found himself before. There were spots in his vision, and he hated to think that they may have been a sign of weakness.

England pulled his legs up to his chest and hugged them, resting his chin on his knees with the intention of keeping himself warm. He didn't feel like continuing on through the rest of the night; it would be better to rest until morning, and then continue with whatever light was available.

So England did. He curled up on his side and fell asleep, and was having the most delightful dream about faeries and unicorns (he wondered about why he didn't ask them for help, but figured it would be something like "territorial boundaries" that would stop them), nd was quite content until his dream world was being shaken and the unicorns and faeries turned into dust.

England shot up, breathing heavily, and found himself staring at a far-too familiar face. A face that would really look a lot better with a bruise on it.

There was a quick scuffle while England tried to either smash America's cheek bones or poke out his eyes (he had been unable to decide which), which ended with America subduing England (by sitting on him). England was understandably pissed by the action, and huffed from his spot under America's ass.

"This totally isn't where I wanted to take you, but it works," America decided. He pointed out towards the water, where the spots in England's vision were bobbing around. "Check out the fireflies!"

England let his eyes shut, and he moved an arm to act as a pillow for his head. "No."

"C'mon, England. They're awesome! Just look!"

"America, I'm tired, wet, and cold. I really don't give a shit about your damned fireflies!" England tried to shift his position with America on top of him, but it failed. He sighed and resigned himself to hours of torture, but America apparently decided to take pity on him. The weight on his back disappeared, only to be replaced with a jacket, and something that felt distinctly like America's arm.

"They're really pretty here," America said, not having the decency to at least whisper. England cocked open an eye to look, making sure that America couldn't see his slight movements. "We can stay here tonight, 'kay? I'll take you back to the car tomorrow."

England simply pulled the jacket snug around him, and refused to acknowledge how America's body worked like a heater in the middle of the night.

And if he thought the fireflies were kinda pretty (considering how far into the shitty forest they had ended up), he wasn't about to say anything.

* * *

True to his word, America found a way out of the forest and back to a main road. England was quite eager to get home and continue his "I'm not speaking to you" punishment in civilization, until America realized something.

"Oops. Wrong side."

England's eye twitched, and he leveled America with a glare.

"Came out on the wrong road. The car's on the other side of the forest."

England continued to glare, and America gave a weak laugh before pointing back to the forest.

"Twelve miles that way?"

England went straight for his eyes.


End file.
